Background Music
by akaiciel
Summary: One-shots covering Max and Takao's life when they're in their mid-twenties and living together. Max/Takao fluff, second installment up!
1. Morning

A/N: This is the first piece of work I've ever had beta-read for me, so huge thanks go out to diamond dew for doing such an incredible job of it! On a side note, if you haven't read her fics yet, go and read them now. They're amazing.  
  
BACKGROUND MUSIC  
  
There are a lot of people who say I'm not a morning person, which really isn't fair! I just need a bit longer than everyone else to wake up, that's all.  
  
Take Max, for example. He's up every morning at five, and that's not even because he has an especially loud alarm. I mean, I can sleep through most high-volume sounds, but Max's alarm is really soft, and he turns it off after one tiny beep! I seriously don't know how he does it. If I didn't have him around to wake me up, I probably wouldn't show up to work until the afternoon.  
  
But while I might not be totally awake at five in the morning - okay, so I'm definitely not totally awake at five in the morning - I wake up most days at exactly the same time he does. I know, I know, I can sleep through the loudest alarm in the world but the way that mattress shifts when he rolls out of bed wakes me every time, the irony isn't lost on me.  
  
Every morning, I listen to him opening and closing closets and drawers, pulling on his running clothes and humming to himself as he shaves. It's one of my favourite parts of the day. No, really, I mean it! We don't have to talk - not that I could anyway; just because I'm conscious doesn't mean I could hold a conversation - and I can just listen to Max doing Maxish things as I drift back to sleep.  
  
I'm woken up again about an hour later as he throws open the curtains and shouts, "Come on, Takao! Time to get up!"  
  
I hate this part of the day. I probably don't have to convince you about this one.  
  
"Takao! Get up! It's half-six!"  
  
"Wake up, Takao! It's a lovely morning, just look outside!"  
  
"Come on, get up! Geez, you're such a slob!"  
  
"You know, you're really not a morning person..."  
  
Eventually, I get woken up enough to open my eyes and yell, "Max, will you just-" and realise that he's leaning over me with a tray of miso soup and rice, a tall glass of milk in one corner and two slices of bread in another.  
  
As is now traditional, I finally wake up completely - enough to remember that I had been determined to get up early and be the one to cook breakfast for a change. I groan inwardly, but by then I'm also awake enough to realise that while I might be annoyed about sleeping through my chance for yet another morning, there's nothing that can be done about it. Almost reluctantly, I mumble my thanks and pick up the chopsticks while Max disappears, returning a minute later with a bowl of chocolatey cereal.  
  
Now, I like chocolate as much as the next guy, but first thing in the morning? Maybe when I was younger, but come on! Sugar is for snacks and desserts, not half past six in the morning!  
  
It was kind of odd when we first moved in together, and realised that some sort of compromise was going to have to be reached about breakfast. Max isn't too keen on Japanese food, and I totally get that, but I flat out refuse to eat that sugary, sloppy mess that he calls a good start to the day.  
  
I gulp down a mouthful of the soup, and make a point of giving Max a grin afterwards. Even though he's been making Japanese food for a while now, he visibly relaxes after my nod of approval. Besides, if I say nothing, he spends the entire meal fidgeting until I do. Sure, sometimes I hold back for fun, but that's not a game I'm really up to in the morning. In fact, it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.  
  
"Takao! Stop singing so loudly, the neighbours'll complain again!"  
  
He's making that up by the way; the neighbours have never compained. But he's made his point, and I grudgingly tone down my rendition of whatever song I woke up with. I've just finished shaving a few minutes later when Max charges in, demanding, "Where's my red folder?"  
  
And they say romance is dead. "I don't know," I call over my shoulder, remembering the days when nudity was actually interesting.  
  
"Damn," is all he says before rushing off again. This is about the time of the morning where things get a lot easier for me and a lot more difficult for him. After all, anyone's day is easy in comparison to a high school math teacher's.  
  
Max knew years ago that he wanted to be a teacher; not for his reputation or the status of it or anything like that, but because he honestly thinks there's nothing better than spending every day with a bunch of kids, and nothing more fun that talking about something like maths or science. I suppose it is fun for him, especially since from what I hear, the kids adore him. I mean, right away he was a novelty, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, and especially since he can speak English. The moment they found out that he was really Max from the Bladebreakers, everyone seemed to listen in Mizuhara-sensei's lessons.  
  
I'm glad that being on the team has given him something. It got his students listening to him long enough to realise that he's not just a great beyblader, but a great teacher too, which has made his life as a grown-up a lot easier.  
  
Easier, but still not easy. Because he can speak English as well, Max often gets called on to cover for teachers, or assist with their lessons as a native speaker. He doesn't mind doing it one bit, but it does mean that when he gets that phone call, he inevitably spends the morning in more of a rush than he should do. It's not fair, but he loves what he does and that's what matters most. I hope he still loves it in ten years time. Not that he'd find it so hard getting another job; Judy's always suggesting we move out to America so he can join her research team, but so far he hasn't wanted to. Which suits me just fine.  
  
When I get out of the bathroom, he's found the folder he wanted, and is ironing his shirt without looking, eyes fixed on the news. Max is one of those people who likes to know what's going on in the world. I suppose it makes sense since he works in a school and all, but it's just another one of those things he likes that I don't understand at all. Anything I want to know about the world, I can hear in the car, on the way to work, I don't need to watch it for half an hour on the television.  
  
But whether I understand it or not, he really doesn't like to be interrupted when he's watching it, so I stay quiet and do the laundry.  
  
Whenever it comes up in conversation, people we know always say that they expect Max does most of the housework and that I just loaf around. And these are my friends! The fact is that I have the type of job I can leave at the door, while Max's follows him in and sticks around like a stray cat. In the evenings, while he's marking papers and sorting out lesson plans, I'm doing the washing up and dividing the laundry into darks and whites.  
  
This started out when we first moved into this apartment; I don't know why, but I always seemed to notice when Max was down to two shirts before he did. It seemed kind of unfair to ask him to do anything about it when he was doing something important and I was doing nothing at all, so I found the washing machine, put everything in and pressed some buttons.  
  
There's this game we play, Housework Chicken. It's exactly like the traditional version of two cars going at each other and seeing who ducks out first, except what we're trying to get out of is housework. If there's something that needs doing, we both know it, and we both ignore it for as long as possible until someone cracks. And that someone, for the record, is usually me, and not Max at all. The fact is, if I left the housework to him, we'd be living in a pigsty and wearing burlap sacks in two weeks; he honestly just doesn't have the time.  
  
Having said that, I know for a fact that there are some days where he's just pretending to be too busy to realise that there's a chore to be done. You can always tell, because right after I've finished, he acts all surprised and says I should have told him it needed doing, that he would have taken the time out of his busy schedule to do some tidbit of housework... And so on. By the end of it, I've usually thrown a pillow at him or something, but while that makes him shut up, it does nothing for the smugly innocent look on his face.  
  
In the mornings though, there really are no games like that. The fact is that the laundry needs to go in the dryer or our clothes are going to smell of damp for days, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can start on lunch. That's right, I make our lunches too, sandwiches for both of us. Sure, there are cafeterias where we both work, but they only serve really small portions, and sandwiches are a great supplement to everything. They're also very handy on any days one of us doesn't get the chance to stop by the canteen, but that's something we learned the hungry way.  
  
Sneaking glances at Max, who's still ironing as intently as he always does, I grab a nearby scrap of paper - we always seem to have bits of the stuff lying around - and scribble a quick note to him. I shove it in the box with his sandwiches, folded under a chocolate cake. I swear, Max has the sweetest tooth of anyone I've ever known! I don't really mind though, it actually makes it easier to give him little presents without getting too obvious. Subtlety's always been a priority for us, but now that he works in a school, it's more important than ever.  
  
The closing jingle of the news pokes through my thoughts, and Max finally turns around. His serious expression breaks into a relieved grin as he realises that his lunch is ready. "Thanks," he says briefly, leaning over the counter to give me our first proper kiss for the day, saved as always for a moment when we're both clean, minty-fresh and relaxed. Such moments are rare, and often short-lived, but always made use of.  
  
"Good morning." He smiles like he hasn't been up for hours, and I can't help but smile back.  
  
"Morning." In no rush at all, I simply watch as Max pulls on his clothes. It's strange, it used to be the undressing that was worth looking at, but now I'd much rather watch closely as he slips his tie on and straightens it up, or shrugs on the business jacket he insists on wearing to school even though he takes it off the moment he gets there and doesn't put it back on again until he comes home.  
  
Living with someone, it's easy to become so used to them that when you look into a mirror, you half expect to see their face instead of yours. One good thing about the morning is that Max is too busy to be self-conscious, and he rarely notices me staring, though I can explain it away pretty easily when he does. It doesn't take much to convince Max that no-one's looking at him.  
  
He grabs his lunch, his backpack, his keys and his wallet, then one quick kiss goodbye later, he's out of the door quicker than you can say "workaholic". It's weird, when we were young beybladers competing internationally, we never thought we'd want or need jobs in the real world. Now, I can't imagine Max doing anything else.  
  
I leave the house myself shortly after, and slide on my sunglasses before I climb into the car. I slide them off again as I realise that there's a bit of paper on the seat next to me that wasn't there before. I unfold it and a broad grin spreads over my face before I can think about it.  
  
Takao,  
  
Have a good day!  
  
Max.  
  
The guy who invented pens and paper was a genius. In fact, we probably owe our relationship to the guy who invented pens and paper. I fold the note up even smaller and zip it safely into the inside pocket of my own blazer jacket - which, unlike a certain person, I actually wear - to be looked at again later in the day.  
  
Not that I'll tell him that. We don't talk about our notes at all, and if we did, I think it'd spoil something. It'd be sort of like we'd violated our own privacy, or something stupid like that. It's much better to be able to write whatever you like on impulse and know that it won't be thrown back in your face several hours later.  
  
But I really need to get to work, and as usual, I'm running late enough to hurry. I put on the sunglasses once again, switch on the radio and start the drive to work, wondering what we should do for dinner that night and drumming it into my head that we need to take our video rentals back before six. 


	2. Evening

Writing this chapter has been hard, very hard, and I honestly could and would never have put this up without an awful lot of help from my wonderful friend and beta, **diamond dew**. It's much appreciated, Dew, and thank you. *hugs*  
  
And another wonderful friend, **Ishshi**, who I'm _coming to visit in August!_ *beams* Something I promised you a while back is here, so I hope you like it!  
  
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**BACKGROUND MUSIC**

  
  
One of the things I miss most about living with my dad is being able to walk into an empty house in the evening. I don't know, I guess I just enjoy being on my own for a while after living a day full of people. It seems kind of unfair to me that Takao's day starts after mine and ends before it - but I guess it also seems kind of unfair to him that I never do the laundry or wash the dishes.  
  
Which is just what he's doing when I get home. There was a bit of a rocky period after we first moved in where neither of us did a thing around the house (trust me, we paid the price by having to live in it). Takao was the first to crack - as I'd known he would be - and presented me with six shirts and a glare while I was preparing the following day's lessons. "And it's your turn next time!" he said sternly before marching off. It was actually really cute - especially since we both knew it wasn't true.  
  
Well, I knew it, anyway. Takao threatened me with "next time" every time he handed me ironed clothes or pointed out the clean dishes or drew my attention to a cupboard door he'd stopped from squeaking - but it turns out next time is as elusive as tomorrow, and never shows up in this house. It wasn't long before he figured it out too, just sort of muttering something about me being a lazy bum every time he tossed shirts in my direction, and a while after that he didn't say a thing, just hung them in the wardrobe next to his jacket.  
  
"I'm home!" I yell out, and I hear him yell back from the other room. After kicking off my shoes - I'm glad my students don't get a chance to see how messy I am at home - I head to the kitchen with a frown. "Are you washing up?" I ask suspiciously. "After I told you this morning that I'd do it when I got back?"  
  
"Only so you can cook!" he calls over his shoulder, stacking another gleaming plate on the draining board. Another gleaming plate that should have been _my_ responsibility.   
  
I sigh and scratch my head, leaning against a cupboard with a thud. "I'm sorry, I really thought I'd be back earlier," I say, disappointed.  
  
"Hey, don't sweat it!" He flashes me a grin that I can't help but return, even though I'm very aware that for yet another day running, I've made promises I couldn't keep. I appreciate the way he brushes it off easily, pre-empting a second apology by asking conversationally, "So, how was your day?"  
  
And we're back to routine. I jump up to sit back on the kitchen counter, twist around to grab a muesli bar from the cupboard above and tell him all about my long and interesting day. There'll be plenty of time for real apologies and fresh resolutions later.  
  
You know, I'm sure he only asks me that so he doesn't have to pay too much attention to replying. Not that I'd want him interrupting or anything, but he sure has it easy, just scrubbing dishes and throwing back the occasional "Uh-huh," "Wow, really?" or, when he's finished, a flicked soapsud or two.  
  
While I'm blinking and wiping the lukewarm bubbles from my hair, Takao dries his hands and comes to stand in front of me. "Hey," he says cheerfully, smiling as he leans forward.  
  
"Hey yourself." He tastes of biscuits.  
  
This is definitely one of my favourite parts of the day. I'm at my most relaxed perched on that counter, the surface top digging into the back of my soon-to-be-numb legs. It gets uncomfortable after a while - really uncomfortable - but I don't care one bit. I love Takao, I love living with him, and I love that we have all the time in the world to do whatever we like.  
  
Well, almost all the time in the world...  
  
"What are you making for dinner?"  
  
I know that question's going to come eventually, but it always makes me laugh. I'd rather stay as we are for a bit longer, but there's only so much time Takao can be in a kitchen and not be thinking about his next meal. And that's okay. In fact, I love that no matter how stressed I am, he can make me smile just by asking for dinner.  
  
"I'm not sure, I need to have a look in the refrigerator, but I think we have some chicken to use up." I shift forward and jump down - but Takao hasn't let go. Instead, he tightens his arms around my waist and props his chin on my shoulder.  
  
God, I love it when he's like this.  
  
I wrap my arms more firmly around his shoulders, smiling as I feel his cold ear against my cheek.  
  
"I have to work tonight, so don't wait up, okay?"  
  
That's less welcome, a lot less welcome.  
  
Takao's a reporter. Well, it's probably more accurate to call him a journalist, but he likes to think he's a reporter who solves mysteries and sends criminals to justice; kind of a mix between Clark Kent and Tintin, but on the staff of the _BBA Monthly_.  
  
Mr Dickenson was right; it really is perfect for him. He's still an active part of the beyblading community, but he gets to do so much more than just compete! He can be the first to review top of the line equipment, he's sent VIP passes to every beyblading event under the sun, and he gets to interview important people in the sport - what more could he possibly want?  
  
Naturally, he loves it. As I watch him at work now, it's hard to imagine that this is the same guy who once declared, "Normal people must have totally boring lives! Why would anyone want to be anything but an international beyblader?"  
  
We all said it, at one stage or another, and we all meant it too - but when your childhood dream is handed to you while you're still a child, where do you go from there?  
  
"Taka-"  
  
"Whuah!" He practically jumps out of the chair when he realises I'm standing by him with a plate. In the half-hour since he left the kitchen area, he's completely forgotten that I'm home, the way he always does.  
  
What's even more impressive is that he's forgotten about his dinner.  
  
"Hey, thanks!" he exclaims. "That was quick!"  
  
"Not really," I laugh, watching his eyes widen as he checks out his computer's clock display. "How's it going?"  
  
He chews and swallows rapidly, considering this. "Good, I think," he says eventually through half a mouthful. "There's still a lot to get done, but it's going okay, I think the boss'll be happy enough. And hey, if I work fast, I might even get a nap in before tomorrow!"  
  
And you think he's kidding? Honestly, I wish he was, but the price he pays for a short working day is a high-pressure deadline. This isn't a rare occurrence, and he probably will stay up all night.  
  
Do I mind? On a totally selfish level, yeah, of course, I mind a lot. But if you see him while he says this, it's so obvious that he's prepared to skip meals, sleep, blinking, whatever it takes to get this done - and I can personally guarantee that he won't complain even once.  
  
It's not because he's some kind of a saint or anything - we all know that - but because it just doesn't occur to him to complain about something he's choosing to put his life into. Whatever anyone might say about us beyblading so much at such a young age, it's given Takao a work ethic responsible for some pretty hefty bonuses and unheard-of special privileges.   
  
But now he's ready to get back to work, having wolfed down his food as quickly as possible while still casting eyes over the unfinished article. He's already stuck in by the time I settle down on the sofa and start eating slowly, trying not to disturb him with clatters and clinks.  
  
I love to watch him type, something I have Takao's boss to thank for. Takao was convinced that compared to becoming the beyblading world champion, writing a few pieces here and there would be a cinch, so he strode into his first day confident he'd be running the place within a month.  
  
The BBA had other ideas. Before he was allowed anywhere near a real office, they paid for him to take a bunch of courses, touch-typing among them. He didn't take to the offer too well at first, but once it was pointed out that the suggestion was really more of a requirement he went along with it, making loud, ignored comments about how he neither needed nor intended to enjoy these lessons at all, so there.  
  
Needless to say, these were loud, ignored comments that died away pretty quickly.  
  
He can use one hand just as quickly as two, not even breaking step as he picks up his (probably cold) cup of coffee, taking a sip and setting it back down before reverting to two hands. His fingers skim fluidly over the keys as if they're skating on water, so lightly I can barely hear the keys click; it's like watching him play a silent piano.  
  
And he's every bit as focused as a concert musician. He gazes intently at the screen with a determined focus that an awful lot of people would recognise if they could see it, even outside the beystadium and on a fully-grown man in a suit.  
  
But I'm tired, it's a school night, and there'll no doubt be a repeat performance of this show before I leave for work tomorrow morning. I yawn and stretch, refreshing and exhausting myself at the same time. "It's getting late," I observe, not expecting any kind of response. "I think I'm going to call it a day."  
  
"'Kay," he responds automatically. "Night."  
  
Knowing better than to distract him any further, I simply gather up my things and head for the staircase, moving as quietly as possible. Even with this extra effort, I still hear the stream of chattered clicks halt abruptly as he regains his concentration with a small, frustrated sigh. I feel a little guilty, but the one time I slipped off to bed without letting him know, he thought he'd upset me, and spent the next few days in penance mode. Yeah, great in moderation, but honestly, I prefer Takao when he's just being... well, himself. His loud-mouthed, totally oblivious self.  
  
Packing my bags for the next day at school, it occurs to me to check my drawers to see if I have any clean running clothes. It's not unheard of for Takao to rearrange his priorities around deadline time; just as he should, of course, but I'd rather find out now than tomorrow morning.  
  
On top of my freshly laundered shorts is a piece of paper with one word on it. I pick it up.  
  


SLOB!

  
I burst out laughing and kick the drawer shut. Suddenly, I notice that there's something on the back of the note, so I flip it over.   
  


You're lucky I like slobs. Love you.

  
The smile creeps up on me, goofy and uncontrollable, and I only realise I've been struck with it when my cheek muscles start to ache.  
  
I know full well how much he'd yell at me if I interrupted him right about now, but it's still a tough call. I feel like I did when I was living with my dad, trying so hard to fit Takao in around someone else's schedule. Each and every one of his notes would kick-start this kind of desperation, to see him, to call him, to just be around him, and as the notes became more frequent, the need for his company became more intense.  
  
I guess you could say that moving in together was a pretty easy decision.  
  
We're not in separate houses anymore, but he's still off-limits for a little while longer. Resigning myself to this fact, I settle into bed and tuck the newest note in my bedside table drawer with all the others. After checking my alarm, I turn the light off and prepare to sleep - only to be awoken moments later by some underwater sea zombie grabbing my arm to drag me into his lake of total annihilation...  
  
I wrench my arm away, shouting, "Get off! Get off me! Let me go!"  
  
He didn't mean to wake me up, but he still looks guilty when I finally open my eyes properly. Actually, if I'm honest, he looks more taken aback than anything else, his hands frozen in front of him.  
  
He grins weakly. "Uh, morning?"   
  
Apparently, my arm was flopped across his pillow, and he was trying very carefully to shift it without me noticing.   
  
Yeah, that worked...  
  
I frown in confusion, my mind just beginning to unjumble itself. "Takao?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Oh." Not too good at getting to sleep again after being woken up, I sit up and rub my eyes, letting the world sink back into place. "Hey. Did I just... yell at you?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Loud?"  
  
"Pretty loud."  
  
"Oh." I take a moment to digest this. He's smiling, and it doesn't look like dawn yet, so I figure work must've gone well. "What time is it?" I ask, now completely awake.  
  
"Four in the morning," he half-whispers, climbing into bed. "I got done early."  
  
I pull him in for an obliging kiss, and he switches off the lamp. "Sorry I woke you up."  
  
"That's okay," I murmur. "I'm kind of glad you did."  
  
I half expect him to say goodnight, turn over and go to sleep, but Takao's no longer as oblivious as he acts. Besides, even though we misunderstand each other constantly - more than any long-term couple probably should - he just... I don't know, he just _gets_ me. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but he does.  
  
So he takes the hint and kisses me right away, the firm kiss of someone who knows for a fact that they won't be rejected. I welcome it, responding in kind and provoking response, attacking his instincts with my own in a gentle battle for supremacy.  
  
It's like I can't breathe enough, but not that I'm short of breath. I try to speak, but everything in my mind distorts my voice, and I can't. I can't do anything but hold on to him as tightly as possible, my hands in fists as my arms push him into me, my heart beating wildly and my jaw moving with the silence of unsuccessful words.  
  
Everything's centred in my head and my stomach. I don't feel the fingers raking through his hair as he kisses my neck, and I don't feel the arm around his back, pressing him as close to me as possible, I don't feel anything but me and him, and I don't think of anything but how much I love this feeling.  
  
At lunchtime the next day, I find a bit of paper trapped between my two sandwiches. Glancing around to make sure no-one's paying attention, I pull it out and unfold it.  
  


Don't go trying some new fashion  
Don't change the colour of your hair  
  


A broad grin plasters itself across my face without me even realising it. One of my mom's favourites, "Just the Way You Are" is probably the closest thing we have to a song of our own. It was my parents' first dance at their wedding so I've known it all my life, and a few years back I scribbled some lines down in a note I gave him. I guess he was pretty taken with it or something, but every now and then I get notes like this, notes that give the first half of a line or a verse and let me fill in the rest.   
  


Don't go trying some new fashion  
Don't change the colour of your hair  
You always have my unspoken passion  
Although I might not seem to care.

  
  
The sandwich can wait. I pick up the phone at my desk and dial the number without thinking, waiting for the familiar voice at the switchboard to recognise my name and patch me through to Takao. We won't talk about the note, and we won't say anything meaningful, so to anyone watching or listening I'll be chatting with a friend. Which is actually pretty accurate.   
  
But Takao knows it's lunchtime, and he can put two and two together as well as anyone.   
  
"Hey, I thought you might call!"   
  
Sometimes two are all that really matter anyway.   
  
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So, what do you think? All and any feedback appreciated, from single comments to long, rambling critiques, so if you've enjoyed this (or not!) I'd love to know! 


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